


you're the closest to heaven i'll ever be

by cmajorchords



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Guardian Angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:38:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmajorchords/pseuds/cmajorchords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has always been the only constant in her entire life, and it's only fair she gets to be his, as well, but life rarely plays out the way you imagine it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the closest to heaven i'll ever be

**Author's Note:**

> title from iris -- sleeping with sirens version

**you’re the closest to heaven i’ll ever be**

She doesn’t know how it happens, not really. One minute she’s hanging suspended from a thick branch, one hand gripping tight and the other straining towards a ripe red apple barely a breath away, and the next she’s falling.

It’s at least one broken bone’s distance away from the ground from high up here, and she’s falling, yanked down so unceremoniously by the curse of gravity. She has just enough time to process that _she does not like falling_ before she has the breath completely knocked out of her upon impact with something that is most definitely not the ground.

She’s only seven years old, but she’s not stupid. The ground isn’t supposed to curve around her like the moon, when somebody’s chewed out part of it in the sky. The ground isn’t soft enough not to break her bones. And most of all, the ground doesn’t wear _clothes._

She stares in stupefaction at the black shirt the arms around her are clad in, made of some kind of soft material that makes her want to rub herself up against it. Then she immediately twists around, senses on high panic alert, and comes face-to-face with the sharpest, brightest, bluest eyes she’s ever seen in her short life.

They sparkle at her as the arms lower her gently to the ground and she gazes wide-eyed back at the man, transfixed. “Hello, Elena,” he says, and his voice is deep and comforting and nothing like her father’s.

She takes a step back, the moment her feet are firmly on the ground. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she says resolutely, setting the line of her mouth.

The man raises an eyebrow at her, tucking hands into the pockets of his jeans. Elena has never seen this man before, but the more she looks, the more he looks familiar, from the way strands of dark hair fall over his forehead, the way he slouches just a little, the smell of his shirt when he’d caught her. She wonders if he’s actually a stranger at all.

“I just saved your neck falling off that tree,” the man tells her, and he sounds disbelieving like her father that one time she’d taken her Barbie apart limb by limb and announced she was performing surgery. “I’m not a _stranger._ I’m, like, your … savior, I suppose.”

Well, stranger does sound a lot like savior, so Elena thinks that’s alright, but …. “What does savior mean?”

He shrugs, posture loose and casual. “It means the person who saves.”

“And you saved me?”

“Da – Dang right I did.”

“Were you going to swear?”

The man blinks at her, caught off guard. He rubs the back of his neck, almost embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m still getting the hang of this taking-to-children thing. Never talked to many children in my life, you see. They annoy me.”

“Then why did you save me?”

He sighs. “Kid, did you not want to saved?”

Elena frowns, opening her mouth to ask how exactly he managed to twist her words around at her like this every single time, then a thought strikes her. “If children annoy you, why did you save me? I’m a children.”

“Child,” he corrects absently. “I saved you because it’s my job.”

“What’s your job?”

“I’m a guardian angel,” he tells her.

“So you’re a guardian angel and a savior?”

“They’re basically kind of the same thing.”

“So guardian angels save?”

“You sure have a lot of questions, princess. Yes, guardian angels do save, I’m your guardian angel, so it’s my job to save your life. Does that make sense?”

Elena nods, but her mind is already moving on to the next. “So, do guardian angels and saviors have names?”

The man sticks out a hand at her. It’s large and brown, and when her manners kick in and she takes it, she stares in fascination at the way his warmth encompasses her entire tiny hand. “My name’s Damon, guardian angel extraordinaire. And you’re Elena.”

She cocks her head at him. “I _know_ my name is Elena. I’m not stupid.”

“Well, considering you just fell off a tree, I would beg to differ.”

Elena’s not terribly sure why anyone would have to beg for anything but money, but she does understand that this stranger-savior-guardian-angel-Damon doesn’t believe she’s not stupid, so she stomps her foot. “I’m _not_!”

He holds up placating hands, backing off. “Alright, princess, you’re not. But what the he – heck were you doing up in that tree, anyway?”

“Apple,” Elena tells him simply, pointing upwards at her death trap. “Mommy and daddy aren’t home. I got hungry.”

He looks at her with that expression again, both disbelief and amazement mixed into one. “You know, usually when children get hungry they get their hands stuck in a cookie jar, not almost break their necks in their backyard.”

She juts out her bottom lip. “I want the apple,” she says stubbornly.

Damon looks between her and that dastardly apple for a long time, then sighs and rolls up his sleeves. “Fine. I’ll get your stupid apple for you.”

“Apples aren’t stupid, they’re just misunderstood,” she rebukes, because _nothing_ in this world is stupid except Jessica at school because she pulled her braids yesterday in recess.

“Who taught you that?” Damon asks, and when she shrugs, he shakes his head and clambers up the tree trunk with such grace and speed Elena’s eyes bug out. He reaches the branch she’d fallen off of in about five seconds flat, and plucks the apple casually off the branch.

“Catch,” he calls down at her, and a second later, the apple lands soundly in her cupped hands.

She beams up at him, descending the tree with the same superhuman agility he’d climbed up with. “Thanks, Mr Damon.”

“You can just call me Damon,” he tells her, landing softly on his feet. He wipes off his hands on his jeans, then points at the apple. “You should probably wash that before you eat it, princess.”

“My daddy says a little gross never hurt no one,” she recites proudly, giving the apple a cursory rub over her shirt before biting in.

“Your father’s just full of life lessons, isn’t he?” Damon watches her bite the apple right down to the core in a matter of minutes with a kind of horrified fascination, like looking at a car crash. “Wow. Exactly how hungry were you?”

“No breakfast,” she tells him cheerfully, tossing the core away and licking her fingers free of sticky apple juice. “No lunch, either.”

Damon frowns at her. “Where are you parents?”

She shrugs. “Out,” she says, the only reply she can give.

“When are they coming back, then?”

“During sleepy-time.”

He narrows his eyes, something hard and edged flickering past that blue before he holds out a hand to her. “C’mon. I’ll make you lunch.”

She squints suspiciously up at him. “You’re not gonna steal anything?”

He pauses then, as if frozen by her words. Then he bends down to her level, blue eyes piercing. “I’m your guardian angel, Elena,” he tells her gently. “I’m never going to do anything that hurts you. Now, what do you want for lunch?”

“Mac and cheese,” she declares, and drags Damon in through the door.

* * *

 

Damon, Elena soon finds out, is an excellent cook. He’s even better at it than her mother, which she thinks is kind of silly because Damon’s not a girl. He doesn’t even look _like_ a girl, and only girls are supposed to cook.

When she’d asked for mac and cheese, she’d been expecting the kind from a box, the kind her parents made for a quick, child-friendly dinner. But Damon searches in the fridge while she sits at the kitchen table, confused.

“Damon, the mac and cheese is in the cupboard.”

Damon scoffs loudly, emerging from behind the fridge door with an opened packet of Mickey Mouse pasta, a huge block of cheddar, and a gallon of milk. “That’s fake mac and cheese, princess. I’m making you the real deal here.”

Curious, Elena slips off her chair and pads over to Damon as he sets all the ingredients on the counter and slings a dishtowel over his shoulder. “How do you make real deal?”

Damon’s expression softens, just a little, as he peels paper wrapping off the cheese. “I’ll show you. Get two pots out, will you?”

He shows her how to tell when the pasta is cooked through, how to melt the cheese down, and when everything’s done he gets out two bowls and forks to divide everything evenly in half.

“Do all guardian angels cook?” she asks, scarfing down her serving with all the speed of a ravenous seven-year-old while he eats at a more leisurely pace.

“Nah, you’re just lucky.”

“Then what do you guys do? Just save?”

He pauses, thinking about it. “We protect,” he shrugs. “I mean, that’s really what guardian angels do, right? They guard, they save. We protect people in need of protection.”

Elena stares up at him, eyes wide and curious. “And I need protecting?”

Damon stares right back at her, solemn. “Yeah,” he tells her softly. “Yeah, you need protecting.”

* * *

 

The crowd explodes into cheers and she barrels into the huge, sweaty, very gross group hug her teammates have banded into on the middle of the soccer field. The tournament’s over, they’ve just won the championship match, and they’re so over the moon nobody cares that everybody’s hot and sticky.

Their coach gathers them into a little huddle before they go off to celebrate this victory, and he’s grinning so hard it looks like it hurts. “ _Great_ job, girls. Elena, Daphne, congratulations on those three goals. Zinnia, fantastic work in that goal, that last block was _brilliant_. You all did excellent, I’m incredibly proud of you all – we’ll go through a play-by-play in practice on Monday. Does everyone have a ride home?”

There is a chorus of affirmative answers, and then a stampede towards the bleachers. They all chatter excitedly as they peel off sweaty socks and exchange soccer shoes for flip flops, stuffing shin guards and grimy, mud-splattered soccer uniforms into PE bags. Then they disband, heading towards smiling parents, and Elena sighs and slings her bag over her shoulder to prepare for the walk home.

“You been playing soccer long?”

She startles at the familiar voice seemingly materialized out of nowhere, almost dropping her bag in her haste to spin around. “Damon!”

He smirks at her with those blue eyes, exactly the same as she remembers him. Actually, everything about him is exactly the same as she remembers him, from the black button-up with two buttons undone to just-baggy-enough black jeans and electric eyes. “Did you miss me? How many years have passed?”

“Only two. I’m in third grade now.” They continue walking, side-by-side now.

“And on the soccer team, to boot. Nice goal there, by the way.”

“Where have you been?” she bursts out, unable to keep it in any longer. “I thought you were supposed to protect me, but you just … vanished.”

Damon tilts his head to the side. “I only appear when you really need protecting. Like that first time, when you fell from the tree.”

Elena frowns. “When have I really needed protecting today?”

Damon hooks a thumb over his shoulder, at the soccer fields. “In there, obviously. I would never have suspected third grade girls played so … violently.”

“You saved me from getting kicked in the shins from a couple of girls my own size?” Elena asks skeptically.

Damon shrugs. “Well, when you put it like that … I actually saved you from a fractured finger, a broken arm, and a torn ligament today. You could try being a little bit grateful.”

“Thanks,” Elena says dryly, and Damon stares at her.

“Look at that. My little princess, all grown up now. Who was stupid enough to teach you sarcasm?”

“I picked it up somewhere,” Elena replies vaguely. “Damon, when you aren’t down here protecting me, are you up in heaven or something?”

“Or something,” he says, equally vaguely. “There’s no heaven, per se, Elena. There’s no god, either. We’re just a bunch of angels managing things as best we can, and as you can tell from the current situation here on earth, the best we can isn’t really working out that well.”

“I like earth,” Elena declares. “What’s wrong with earth?”

“You’re not old enough to watch the news yet, are you?”

“I’m nine years old, I’m old enough to do anything!”

Damon grins. “Well, flick on the news channels sometime. Might find out a thing or two about your beloved earth.”

“So, up there somewhere, you know angels? And other guardian angels?”

“I know of them, yes,” Damon tells her. “The really important ones are too busy to associate with us, usually, so it’s actually mostly just a bunch of us good old guardian angels sitting around reminiscing how many times we saved our assignment’s lives, drinking beer, you know.”

“Angels can drink beer?” Elena asks incredulously.

“Angels can do anything they want,” Damon says, but he’s distracted, watching a couple of teenagers walk up the sidewalk towards them. “Hey, do me a favor, princess?”

“What?”

“Don’t talk to me until we’re past that group.”

Elena frowns. She opens her mouth to ask why, but Damon puts a finger on her lips, eyes asking her to be quiet, so she faces front and trudges on forward until the teenagers are a safe distance behind them before looking up at Damon. “Are they not supposed to know you exist or something?”

“It was mostly for my benefit than yours,” Damon explains. “They can’t see me, you see. If we’d kept on talking they might’ve thought you were a little bit insane.”

“They can’t see you?” Elena’s eyes are wide with this new development. “Like, at all? Like, you’re invisible?”

“Like, I’m invisible to everyone but you,” Damon agrees. “I’m assigned to you, so the only person that can see me is you. The same is true for all guardian angels – you wouldn’t be able to see anybody else’s. That’s why it’s so important you don’t tell anyone about me – have you?”

“Nope,” Elena says cheerfully, proud. “You’re still as secret as a secret can be. Are you really invisible?”

“Yep.”

“That makes me feel special,” Elena tells him seriously, and one side of his mouth tilts up in a half-smile. “Does everyone have a guardian angel, then? Do mommy and daddy?”

“I don’t think so,” Damon says slowly, as if trying to think about it. “Guardian angels get introduced to all the other guardian angels in the area, just so there aren’t any mess-ups, but I haven’t been introduced to anyone. So I don’t think so, no.”

“Do angels have halos, then? Do they wear white bathrobes?”

Damon laughs, as they head up the front steps of her house and she reaches into her bag to pull out the keys. Damon helps her fit it in and turn so the tumblers click, letting the both of them inside. “Nah, we’re usually pretty laidback. I mean, we drink beer, although I prefer bourbon. And we don’t have a uniform, we just wear whatever we want – there’s this strange guy in the room above mine, he likes wearing Roman togas. I think he’s been living too long.”

“You all bunk together? Like a boarding school?” Elena drops her bag off in the living room, and Damon follows her into the kitchen.

“How do you know about boarding schools?”

“My parents want to send me to one,” Elena says off-handedly, opening the fridge. “What’s bourbon?”

“Nothing you’ll have in this house,” Damon assures her hastily.

Elena frowns. “Oh. Then what do you want to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Orange juice,” Elena says, setting the carton on the counter and going on her tip-toes to open the dishwasher and pull out two fresh glasses.

“Then I’ll have some orange juice, thanks, princess.”

Elena pours them both a glass while he sits and makes himself comfortable at the kitchen table. He observes her putting the orange juice carefully back in the fridge, the easy way she’d handled things. “Where are your parents right now, Elena?”

“Business trip, in New York. Daddy says when I’m old enough he’ll take me, too.”

Damon takes a sip of orange juice. The taste of overly sugared, artificially flavored water hits his tongue, and he fights back a grimace. By the angels, if nobody took care of this child while her parents were out, no wonder she was so independent. Did she know how to cook yet? “And they want to send you to boarding school, you said?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to go.” Elena plays with the condensation in the glass, looking almost depressed for the first time since their conversation started. “They said they don’t have time to take care of me, but I can take care of myself, can’t I, Damon?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Damon mutters, and sighs. “How long have they been gone?”

“A couple of days, I think.”

“And what have you been eating in this time?”

“Mommy left a few sandwiches, but I finished that in two days, so I started making my own.” Elena beams up at him, proud at this accomplishment. “I also figured out how to make eggs!”

Damon glances up at the clock. It’s four in the afternoon, he’s got plenty of time. Guardian angels are on a time limit once they’ve finished the job, but he thinks the angels will allow him some time to help him take care of this girl. “That’s wonderful, princess. Now, how about I show you some easy recipes so you don’t have to eat breakfast for every single meal every day.”

Elena’s eyes grow huge. “Can you really?”

“Really,” he promises, resolving to have a nice long talk with the angels about this girl’s parents sometime in the near future. He doubts it’ll come to anything – after all, earth has much more urgent affairs that require immediate attention than the wellbeing of a single insignificant mortal, but it’ll ease his conscience a little bit.

He stands, making his way around her to open the fridge, checking the contents. An almost-finished loaf of bread. Some slices of that nasty processed cheese. A jar of peanut butter, scraped down to almost nothing. He twists the cap off the gallon of milk, and makes a face at what he finds inside.

“What’s wrong?” Elena asks, going over to stand by him.

Damon points at the milk. “Have you been drinking this?”

“No, I hate milk. Has it gone bad?”

“Yes, it very much has,” Damon nods, turning around to empty the gallon down the drain before setting the jug in the trash. He inclines his head towards the fridge. “Is that all you’ve been living off of?”

Elena bites her lip. “I wanted to go shopping,” she tells him in so soft a whisper he has to lean forward to hear properly, as if what she’s saying is something to hide, to be ashamed of. “But I don’t have money.”

Damon straightens up. “Well, that’s not a problem,” he says cheerfully, already heading for the stairs. “Here, I’ll show you some survival skills. Where are you parents’ room?”

“First door to the left, once you get upstairs,” Elena replies automatically, scampering after him. “But you can’t go in there! They’ll get mad.”

“Yes, well, we need money, and I don’t have any on me right now,” Damon shrugs. He looks at her, worrying her lip between her teeth, almost drawing blood. He pats her on the shoulder comfortingly. “Hey, look, you can tell your mommy that you were too hungry. I’m sure they won’t mind, not if you only take a little bit of money.”

“But it’s wrong,” Elena counters. “It’s stealing. And you promised you wouldn’t steal, you’re a guardian angel.”

“Yes, and I’m doing my job because right now, you’re going to starve to death if we don’t go to the grocery store and actually buy edible things.” He stares at her, and sighs when her expression doesn’t give. “Look, family own things together, Elena. Your parents’ money is also yours. Think of it like borrowing. Does that help?”

Elena frowns. “You’ll only take a little bit.”

“Just enough to buy all the things we need,” Damon promises.

Elena sighs. “Fine. Where do you find money?”

* * *

 

They emerge a few minutes later with a stack of cash in hand. It’s lucky Elena knows nothing about money because there’s at least two hundred dollars in this stack, and that’s way more than enough to pay for a few emergency groceries. But Damon’s determined to do this right, to teach her how to survive, to ensure a repeat of this will never happen. He’ll leave the rest in her room later on, he thinks, and forge a note from her parents saying if they’re ever gone for too long again, to use it to feed herself.

There’s a grocery store a couple blocks down that Elena knows the way to, and he grabs a cart the moment they step inside. He’s never been in a mortal establishment like this before, only heard of them, and the clean floor and neat shelves disorient him terribly. “Where to, first?” he asks faintly.

Elena takes his shirtsleeve and tugs him towards one of the aisles. “Sandwiches! We need bread.”

Soon, they develop a sort of system. Damon recites all the ingredients he thinks they’ll need for simple meals and Elena is the compass, navigating them flawlessly to find all that he asks for. The grocery cart fills up fast with both necessities and luxuries – Elena had stuck to the basics like bread and cheese and deli ham slices for an easy meal, but Damon had convinced her to buy some vegetables, fruit, cookies for a quick fix. He teaches her how to choose the freshest, buys her yoghurt and cereal and fresh juice that doesn’t taste that fake.

At the end of the shopping trip he’s exhausted and he knows his time is almost up; Elena’s bouncing off the walls, happy that she’s finally getting a halfway decent meal. He mentally begs the angels to give him a couple hours more time, and helps Elena unpack the groceries, teaching her which goes into the fridge, which go into the cupboards, and which go into the fridge after it’s been opened. Then he ties an apron around her, and tells her to watch and learn.

He makes spaghetti, first, the kind with real tomatoes, easy enough to make after the water’s boiled and he’s canned some ready-made sauce for her. Then baked chicken in the oven, sprinkling shredded parmesan over it before popping it in to bake for forty minutes. Then he slices up croissants from the can and shows her how to roll it up before baking, and then brownies from the mix in the box, then an easy garden salad, which includes a lesson on how to properly wash vegetables. She makes a face at that but he lectures her on the importance of eating a balanced diet or else Satan will come and kill them all, and she happily eats all of it afterwards.

By the time nine o’clock rolls around and she’s beginning to yawn and itch for a shower after a sweaty day at the field and then a whole lot of cooking, the kitchen is piled high with food. He looks down at her, sitting at the kitchen table, stuffed full of his mother’s recipes. “Go take a shower,” he suggests. “I’ll clean up in here.”

She lifts her head to look at him, drowsy on a full stomach. “Damon? Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“If you’re a guardian angel, do you have parents? Who taught you how to cook?”

He freezes, the question completely unexpected. He looks at her half-closed eyes, though, the dishes piled on the sink, the time ticking down. “I think that’s a story for another time, princess,” he says gently. “For now, go take a shower. I probably won’t be here when you finish.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I have to go,” he agrees. “I’ll be back, though, the next time you need me. Hopefully it’s not that soon.”

“Hopefully,” she nods, but can’t help thinking she’ll risk a little if it means his company again. “You promise you’ll tell me the story?”

“Next time, yes,” he reassures her. “Now, go upstairs, you kinda stink.”

She pouts at him, but does as told; he barely hears her whispered goodbye, and smiles as he turns on the water to wash the dishes clean.

* * *

 

A few years pass before he feels that pull again, and he calmly sets down his glass of bourbon, folds himself into an armchair, and waits. Sure enough, barely a minute later, he feels his very essence scattered and dropped back on earth before reforming, and he hurriedly checks everything’s still right where it’s supposed to be before standing up.

By the Angels, no matter how many times this happens, he’s never really going to get used to this.

He looks around then, and sees he’s standing in Elena’s backyard. It’s nighttime, and all the curtains are drawn shut, lights off. He sees the moon clearly in the sky, illuminating the garage, which actually contains cars this time.

Well, well. It looks like Elena’s parents are finally home.

The apple tree in the backyard is gone, though, a large patch of empty soil where it used to stand, reaching up to Elena’s window. He frowns, because that means a good chunk of time must’ve passed since his last visit, and he doesn’t know what has happened in all that time.

Still, though. He’s here now, and she’s asleep, which means it’s not a physical kind of pain. Some of the older guardian angels had taught him how to help mortals out with the emotional side of things, because emotional pain hurts as much as the physical, but he’s never had to employ that knowledge before. Physical is easy. Reach forward, pull with mind, stop them from getting hurt.

Emotional pain requires talking, and comfort, and nice words, and all of those are nothing he’s particularly skilled at.

Damon sighs and wastes no time in climbing up to the top of the back porch, and from there up onto the roof. He scales it silently sideways before locating Elena’s window (of course he knows it’s her window, it’s got gardenias in the window boxes) and pushing it forward. It unlocks beneath his touch, because it recognizes him as all things do as Elena’s guardian angel, and he drops in on silent feet.

The first thing he notices is that the bed is empty, and the bathroom light is on. Then he registers the quiet sobbing, and his first instinct is to run because he’s never been good with crying women.

But this is Elena. She should still be a teenager at least, and this is his job.

Damon takes a deep breath and steps into the bathroom. “Elena?” he asks quietly.

Then he sees the blood, and the razor, and his brain goes wild. “What the fuck, Elena?” he half-yells at her, mindful of waking her parents because this is nothing she’ll want to let them see. He swings the door shut behind himself and strides towards her, curled up at the base of her bathtub. He sits down and yanks the razor away from her, flinging it into the sink. Blood splatters onto the mirror above it, but he can hardly care less at the moment.

Elena looks up at him, and with a jolt, he sees that she’s no longer that little girl at the soccer tournament from so long ago. Her features have matured into something beautiful, large brown eyes and flawless skin. Long brown hair falls in a curtain around her face. She is captivating, but all he can focus on at this moment is how lifeless her eyes are, how skinny she is. Has she even been eating?

“Damon,” she says blearily, almost like she’s half-awake. He remembers that one of the symptoms of blood loss is sleepiness, and he begins panicking, reaching for a damp towel to wipe her arms free of blood, to check how deep she’s gone. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am, you silly girl, you’re hurting,” he hisses at her through clenched teeth. He sits back down and yanks her arm towards him, gently rubbing the towel over her arm. He winces at the sight the cuts make against smooth skin, laddering up her wrist. Thankfully they look like superficial wounds; the razor hadn’t cut deep enough for the crimson to overflow, and they only seep sluggishly.

“I’m not trying to kill myself,” Elena tells him, as though reading his mind.

“Then what the fuck were you trying to do?” he asks, unable to contain his rage. He opens the cabinet beneath the sink and emerges with the first-aid kit, sloshing antiseptic into her wounds. Angels, he’d forgotten how stupidly _frail_ mortals were. No wonder they required guardian angels.

She winces at the sting of the medicine, and he takes a deep breath in through his nose, rubbing medicinal cream over the wounds more gently. “Just trying to see if it worked,” she mumbles, and he looks up sharply.

“What did you think this would do, princess, besides hurting yourself?” he prods cautiously.

She shrugs. The movement pulls at her wrists and she immediately winces. “That was the point, really. To hurt myself. They always do say physical pain blocks out the emotional pain.”

He wants to ask what the hell kind of emotional pain she was experiencing that necessitated this, but swallows his words before they can explode out along with a mountain of rage. This isn’t what she needs at the moment. She needs comforting words and maybe even hugs. She doesn’t need more people screaming at her. “And did it work?” he says instead, in a carefully controlled, very even voice.

She half-smiles, like she knows how hard he’s working not to blow up at her. “Nope. It just amplified everything, and letting myself bleed just increased the pressure. I don’t know what the hell everyone else was going on about.”

“Well, good, you’ve learned your lesson.” He wraps bandages around her arms too tight, layering them so that even if the wounds open and bleed they wouldn’t seep through. He packs away the first-aid kit while she runs her fingers up and down the bandages.

“You’re good at this.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I do. I’m a guardian angel.”

“I never asked, you know. Are you only assigned to me, or other kids too?”

“Just you.” Damon looks at her, all tear-streaked cheeks, blood on her shirt and on the tiled bathroom floor. “Why don’t you go change, I’ll clean the mess in here,” he tells her gently. “Then we’re going to talk.”

“Like that’s going to help.”

Rebellious teenage phase, then, he tells himself mentally, almost amused. He points at the door. “You don’t know until you try, princess.”

She huffs and stomps off. He’s reminded of their last parting as he turns and wipes up the blood, careful to catch each drop so there would be no evidence left in the morning for anyone to find. He rinses out the stained towels in the sink before hanging them back up on the rack to dry, then flicks off the lights.

He finds Elena already curled up under the covers in the bedroom; when she sees him enter, she pats the space next to her invitingly, and he only hesitates for a second before toeing his shoes off and sliding in next to her. She lays her head half on his chest and snuggles in there, and he awkwardly pats the side of her head. “What happened?” he asks, very quietly. It’s still dark and he has no wish to disturb the perfect peace that comes with it.

“My parents,” she says, equally softly. Her hands are cold, and he takes both in his to warm them up. “They came home yesterday, from another business trip.”

“Bad thing,” he surmises.

Elena shrugs. The movement blows a few strands of her hair in his face and he inhales automatically, breathing in the scent of her sandalwood shampoo and the spice of rain and mint that hides within it. “Neither, really, but apparently something bad happened on the trip. They made for the liquor cabinet first thing after they got back and … they got really drunk. Like, the bad kind of drunk. The kind of drunk that makes people throw things and say things they don’t mean and … yeah.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, because he’s experienced that kind of drunk firsthand as well, and knows how bad it can get. He pulls Elena just a little bit tighter in.

“Then they started arguing. I was in my room the entire time, you know, trying to avoid ground zero, but I heard every word really clear. It started out as an argument over … nothing at all, now that I come to think about it. Then they started arguing about me. I heard my name, so I went to sit on the top of the stairs where you can’t see me unless you come straight towards the stairs, and I heard –” Her voice catches just for a second, but then she clears her throat and her voice is stronger. “Apparently, Damon, I was a mistake. I was something they never meant to have. My dad said that my mother should’ve just got an abortion, then, and my mother said she would’ve have if she’d known the kind of daughter I’d turn out to be, and stormed out.”

“Oh, princess,” Damon mutters, trying so hard to keep it together for this one person he cares for in this world, and tucks her head in beneath his. “Don’t listen to a single fucking word they say.”

Something wet drips onto his shirt, and he holds her closer. “You swore,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

“I figure you’re old enough to hear it, now,” he shrugs. “Elena, you can’t let this destroy you. Maybe what they said was true. But you’re beautiful. You’re a beautiful, strong girl, and you’re going to do so much in your life they won’t know about, and that’s okay. They were drunk, they probably didn’t mean anything.”

“See, that’s the thing, Damon. Drunk words are sober thoughts – if they said it, they must’ve _thought_ it at least once in their life, right? How do I face them after something like that?”

“With a smile,” Damon murmurs into her ear. “You’re better than they are, Elena, I’ve always known that. You’ve just got to start showing it, now.”

“They’ve never been very much interested in me, but I’ve always wanted to prove to them I’m worthy of being their daughter. I have a job, and straight A’s, and I’ve never brought home a guy they didn’t like. I make them _dinner_ , for God’s sake, what else do they want me to do?”

“That’s the kind of people they are, Elena. You can’t wait for them forever. You don’t have to believe everything they say, princess, you’re not seven years old anymore. You’ve got to start finding your own way in this world – you should start here.”

There’s silence for a long time, while Damon lets her soak his shirt in salt tears, her face buried against his chest. It’s all the more reminder that Elena is no longer nine years old, and this kind of thing hurts even more when you’re not a child, and Damon’s heart breaks all over again for this broken girl.

“Are you ever going to leave, Damon?” she whispers, shattering the black.

“Not if you don’t want me to,” he answers truthfully.

She shifts in his arms, making herself more comfortable. “I’d like that story you promised me last time now, please.”

His lips curve in a half-smile. “I _did_ promise, didn’t I?”

“Let’s start with your family,” she suggests.

“Well, I was born in the eighteen hundreds, right here in Mystic Falls –”

“You’re old.”

“I realize,” Damon says dryly. “Now, did you want to hear the story or not?”

Elena mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key, and snuggles back down.

“My family was decently well-off. My mother never had to work a day in her life, and we had hired servants and a cook. My father liked smoking tobacco in the afternoons. I had a younger brother, named Stefan, and we were inseparable. My father taught the both of us how to shoot when I was thirteen, and we went on hunting trips together in the woods every few weeks or so. We brought back deer, and rabbits, and birds for dinner. My mother loved cooking. She’d chase the cook out of the kitchen on those days we brought home meat, and I’d help out, and we’d cook everything up to serve for dinner. Sometimes when I got bored she’d push me into the kitchen and teach me a few of her best dishes, even if my father was all disapproving and said that men shouldn’t cook. I did love cooking, though, so I never minded.”

“That’s why you’re so good at it.”

“All I know came from my mother yes, so you know all my mother’s recipes.”

“Did your entire family become guardian angels, then?”

He laughs, and he’s surprised at how bitter the sound is. “No, that’s not allowed. You’ve got to do something really special to be a guardian angel.”

She goes perfectly still in his arms, and he thinks perhaps she’s already seen how the ending of this particular story will go.

“One time, when I was about twenty, we went on one of our hunting trips,” he says slowly. “It was a bright, sunny day. No clouds to be seen anywhere. We’d already caught a belt of fat rabbits, which would be more than enough for the night. We were heading back, and me and Stefan were just goofing around, you know, being teenage boys. But he’d forgotten that there were still bullets in his rifle, and when he aimed forwards, at our father ahead, pretending to shoot him, his finger slipped against the trigger.”

“Damon –” Elena begins, but Damon makes a soft hushing sound before continuing.

“I heard the click too late. My father hadn’t even noticed. I reacted on instinct, pulling the gun away from my father, and the bullet caught me straight in my gut.”

Elena swallows hard. “Did you –”

“I died, yes,” Damon agrees complacently. “Back in those days, if you were shot, you were pretty much a goner. I was only alive for a couple of hours after that, and Stefan stayed with me the entire time. He couldn’t stop apologizing, and it was all I could do to tell him it wasn’t his fault. My mother was crying like she didn’t know how to stop. My father stood at my side, all stoic and stuff like he thought a real man should be, but he broke down near the end, too.”

“And what – I mean, do you – do you know what happened to them? Afterwards?”

Damon shakes his head. “I thought about looking for them, but … well, I wouldn’t even know how you’d go about doing something like that.”

There’s quiet for a while again, as Elena process all of this, and then she’s jumped out of bed and headed straight for her desk, powering up her laptop faster than he can blink. “The internet, of course,” she says happily. “They should have records and stuff like that, shouldn’t they?”

He swings his legs out of bed, coming to stand over her shoulder while she opens a browser and heads for a search engine. “Do they really?”

“Have you never been on the internet before?”

“I was born in the nineteenth century, Elena. And they don’t actually have _everything_ you need up there.”

“Well, I would die without internet, and yes, they have everything on it. Hopefully it hasn’t been long enough that nothing shows up. What’s your last name?”

“Salvatore.”

“Damon Salvatore, Mystic Falls,” she repeats, typing it in and hitting enter. Results pop up immediately, and she scrolls through them impatiently before she strikes gold. She clicks on the link to an old Mystic Falls paper, and they read the article together.

After Damon Salvatore, 20, died in a tragic accident, the entire family up and moved to New Orleans. Apparently they set up some sort of business there, something that amassed them a huge fortune, and their legacy still lives on today.

“You have family, Damon,” Elena breathes, eyes wide and shining. _“Alive_ family.”

“In New Orleans,” Damon agrees dryly, sitting back down on her bed.

“Are you going to visit?”

“If the angels let me, perhaps I’ll drop by for a quick visit, yes,” he agrees, and she smiles.

* * *

 

He keeps watch at her side at her last soccer match of freshman year, but she looks like she’s doing well. She’s got a boyfriend now, a guy called Matt who seems to want to treat her right in all meanings of the word. He buys her flowers, takes her to her first high school dance with a corsage in hand. He takes her out for meals at restaurants that aren’t fancy, but aren’t cheap, either. They go out for movies together, hang out with mutual friends together.

She’s happy and smiling and laughing, and that’s all he needs so he leaves immediately after making sure she doesn’t break her left femur.

After that, she quits soccer. He doesn’t know why, but it may be because of the fact that all her friends are in cheerleading. She auditions first day of sophomore year, and gets in immediately. She’s a flyer, which makes sense because she’s always been a skinny, agile little thing – but it also makes his job a whole lot harder, catching her when she slips, helping her balance when she’s about to fall. It’s ten times as exhausting as when she’d just played soccer, but she has Matt, and Caroline, and Bonnie around her, so he keeps his distance once the job is done.

Her parents are out a lot now. When they’re in the house, Elena makes a point to avoid them as much as possible. Damon suspects they know what’s up, but they never talk about it.

That’s not fine with him, but it’s fine with Elena, so he grudgingly leaves it be.

The years fly by. He’s hanging around with a few of his fellow guardian angel buddies when he feels that tug, that he hasn’t felt in at least four years so he immediately drops everything and responds. It deposits him in Elena’s office chair behind her desk, and she’s lying in her bed staring at the ceiling.

Nothing looks wrong at first glance. Still, he’s concerned, because she’s eighteen now, moving on to college, and she isn’t crying or hurting herself but he’s here, so something’s got to be wrong.

He stands, and the sound startles her, jerking her upright in bed; she half-shrieks a little until she registers his presence properly. “Oh, _Damon_ , why do you always appear like that?” she groans, collapsing back onto the bed.

“Like what?” he asks innocently, sitting down on the bed next to her. She shifts over to make space for him, just a little. “How have you been doing?”

“Quite well, actually.” She eyes him warily. “Which doesn’t really explain what you’re doing here, does it?”

He shrugs. “If the angels sent me here, something’s got to be up. Catch me up on your life since my last visit?”

“Well, I quit soccer and got into cheerleading – but you probably knew that, because I haven’t got a single scrape since I joined. Have you been secretly keeping watch?”

“ _Someone_ has to keep you from breaking all the bones in your body,” he tells her smugly.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Right, ha, funny. Thanks, anyway. You should know about Matt, then.”

“The blond guy, yes. He seems decent.”

“He’s a really nice guy, Damon.” She hesitates. “If you know about him, then do you know that I also broke up with him last week?”

He doesn’t even blink. He’d seen it coming. It had been clear from the very beginning that he liked her more than she liked him back, and relationships like that were doomed. “Did you, now?”

“Yeah, and something tells me you knew.”

“I swear I didn’t. I did suspect, though.”

She stacks her hands behind her head. “Huh. Is that a guardian angel thing?”

“No, it’s more likely a Damon thing. Or maybe I’ve just lived too long. Do you need to talk about Matt?”

“No it’s … I mean, I was the one who broke up with him, not the other way around. It’s a bit strange, knowing he’s no longer there for me, but … I’m dealing with it. I’m okay. It just didn’t seem like we were working, you know?”

He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “And how are things with your parents?”

“Not better,” she says, after a slight pause. “Not worse, either. We’re just sort of hanging in there. At least I’ll be getting out of here soon.”

He lies down carefully on top of her bedspread, then turns his head to look at her. She’s a lot closer than he’d thought, and she still takes his breath away. If this was any other girl he’d kiss her, but she’s his job, he’s a guardian angel, and he doesn’t want to think about what might happen if he gives into his instincts. “And which college are you going to?”

“I applied to about eight,” she shrugs. “My first choice is Sarah Lawrence, though. It’s far enough away from here, and I’ve always liked writing.”

“So you’ll be majoring in creative writing?”

“Or literature. Haven’t decided yet.”

“Are you going to be an author, then?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m eighteen, Damon, the possibilities are endless.”

“Enjoy them while you can, princess,” he advices. She’s so close and yet so far away, and he forces himself to look at the ceiling. “You’ve grown up wonderfully,” he murmurs, half to himself.

She barks out a laugh. “Remember the first time we met? I fell off a tree because I wanted a stupid apple, and you caught me.” Her voice softens, just a little. “You always do.”

“Yeah, what the hell happened to that tree, anyway? I came around and it was just … gone.”

“Caroline and Bonnie used to climb it to sneak into my room for secret sleepovers,” Elena shrugs. “My father heard one night, and he was scared that when I got older I’d use it to sneak boys in, so he cut it down.”

Damon smirks. “Didn’t stop me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re special,” Elena replies, but she’s smiling, relaxing into the bed. She turns her head to look at him, and they’re so uncomfortably close he wants to draw back, but something magnetic reels him in. Her eyes are wide, innocent, curious, and he wonders what she sees in his.

“Elena,” he breathes, because if he doesn’t look away he’s going to do something really stupid he’ll never be able to take back. “I – I can’t –”

“Yeah, I thought as much,” she mutters, and rolls away from him.

He frowns, not knowing what he’s supposed to do. He reaches for her, wanting to pull her back. “Elena –”

She spins around, and he can see the forced smile on her face and feels his heart break all over again. “It’s been nice talking to you, Damon. See you?”

He stares at her for a long time, then out the window. “See you,” he agrees, and vanishes.

* * *

 

The next time he finds his way to earth, he emerges to the sound of twisting, screeching, protesting metal and he knows the angels have acted too late.

He tries anyway, desperately pulling and pulling with his mind, blasting the other car out of the way with nothing but the force of his thoughts. He can hardly care less about the driver of that one, because it’s his own fault he was driving drunk in the first place. Instead, he rushes forwards, towards that small silver car he’s watched over for two years now.

He hopes against hope against hope, praying to the angels, but he knows it’s too late. It’s too late, so all he can do is release her seat belt and tug her gently from the destroyed frame of her car, pull the toddler she’s been babysitting from the protective embrace of her arms. The toddler is fine, screaming and crying from the shock of it all, but he’s fine.

Damon checks over the child first because he can’t face Elena, not like this, not with the angels already streaming information into his brain on how to take care of this new disaster. The toddler isn’t hurt except for a few scraps over his bare arms and legs, emerging fine from the car wreck. Damon touches a single finger to his forehead and the toddler goes limp, falling into a dead sleep. Putting him carefully just next to Elena’s car where the police would find him once they came, he steps over to Elena.

There’s blood all over her clothes and skin, pouring from the huge gash over the side of her head. Her eyelids are flickering, her arms twisted horrifically, flesh torn and bloody red.

She’s still beautiful, and he tells her that when he sits and pulls her head into his lap, smoothing out her fine, long hair.

Her eyes flicker open at his voice, and she manages a weak smile. “Damon,” she croaks, her voice rusty and bleeding like the rest of her body. “I knew you’d come.”

“Too late,” he says, and he cannot contain the rage and bitterness and perfect anger in his voice. “I came too late. I’m so sorry, Elena, there’s nothing I can do. Nothing the angels can do.”

“You don’t need to do anything, Damon, you’ve already done so much for me.” Still smiling that weak, content smile, she raises a hand streaked red with her own blood, and he takes it, gently guiding it towards his cheek for her. She strokes it softly, gently, with all the care of a mother with a newborn.

“You’re going to be a guardian angel, like me,” he whispers, and he feels the involuntary tears come. It shouldn’t have ended like this. She should’ve lived, gotten to live like he never had, graduate from college and get married and have kids and grow old. She should’ve had a life, and he hates the angels so much for not sending him down in time he’s surprised he’s not smoted on the spot.

“That’s wonderful,” she breathes, but the announcement comes with a realization. She twists around, trying to look past the wreckage of the smoking cars. “Ben? Where’s Ben?”

Damon shushes her, pushing her back down gently. “Careful, even angels can’t heal a broken spine. Ben’s fine. I healed him up, sent him to sleep. I’ll call the police later, make sure he’s found.”

“Will you – will you stay with him until they do?” she asks, and he hates the way her voice breaks in the middle like she doesn’t quite have the energy left to finish.

“Of course I will.”

“And will you – will you kiss me?”

He looks at her for a long moment, her eyes pleading. Then he nods once, dipping his head down.

Her lips are blood and chapped, and she doesn’t have anything left to respond with, but she’s still the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. When he draws back, she’s smiling, eyes closed.

“Thank you, Damon,” she whispers.

“Anytime, princess,” he promises, and lets go.

*

The angels come, after that. They cast him sorrowful looks as they mutter prayers beneath their breaths, gathering her broken body back together. They heal with their touch and extract her soul with a single murmured vow, and Damon stands off to the side, watching over the toddler and the police as they take him to safety before returning to take pictures of the crime scene.

The drunk man in the other car is dead, and Damon knows it’s wrong, but he couldn’t be happier.

“Damon,” one of the other guardian angels Ric, calls. Damon turns back, and sees the silvery white of Elena’s soul cupped in Ric’s hands. He offers it towards Damon. “Why don’t you take her up?”

“Thank you, Ric,” Damon responds, his voice tired and haggard. This is the start of a whole new beginning, a fresh canvas ready to be painted on and destroyed all over again, but all he can think about is how it wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Now that she’s a guardian angel, just like him, everything’s changed. And his spirits lift, because everything’s changed, and even though it wasn’t supposed to end like this, now they can live together. And he wonders if this was the way it was always supposed to be, because this isn’t perfect but it’s the best they can hope for anyway.

He takes Elena’s soul in his hands, the delicate thing that peers up at him, curious at the strange new world. “Be brave, princess, you’ll be alright,” he whispers, and spreads his wings.

It’s a short flight up. But becoming a guardian angel is a long ceremony – he helps the other angels bury Elena’s soul in the sacred ground, waits for the spells and protection weaves to sink in before helping her dig her way back up.

The reformation of her body is a long, hard one, because even though they’ve taken her human body, a guardian angel’s physical makeup is so different many painful changes have to be made. But her soul slides back in with barely a whisper, and she’s laid down in a bed in new room, just next to Damon’s, to rest.

It takes exactly three days, seven hours, eleven minutes and thirty-six seconds for her to open her eyes, and he stands by her side the entire time.

It takes exactly three days, seven hours, eleven minutes and thirty-six seconds for her to say his name again, and it’s most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

 


End file.
